


What You Need

by janescott



Category: Glam Rock RPF
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rating: NC17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:30:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy/~Jon fucking against a car. PWP. (NB ~Jon is a real-life friend of Tommy's. Jon isn't his real name, but got stuck with it before we knew what it was - lol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> Fan fiction for fun. Nothing belongs to me :-)

Jon pushes Tommy up against the car, flinging an arm around his neck, and holding him still. Tommy can feel Jon's hard dick against the small of his back, the fabric of his jeans rough on Tommy's t-shirt and overheated skin.

Jon's breath is hot and heavy as he whispers in Tommys ear: "You see these two fingers, Tommy? Do you know what I'm gonna do with them?"

And Tommy's really got nowhere to go, Jon's got him pinned pretty good against the car, his own dick hard and insistent, pressed into the unforgiving metal.

"Tell me," he says, his voice low and rough, like he's been screaming on stage for hours, but it's just been Tommy and his friends hanging out at the bar. It's late, and getting colder, and everyone else is gone. Tommy feels like he's shouting, it's so quiet, but he knows he's not.

Tommy feels the curl of Jon's smirk on the back of his neck, and Jesus, that's – "I'm gonna slick 'em up real good, Tommy boy, and then slide 'em in to you – nice and easy." Tommy tilts his head back a little bit, enjoying the vibration of Jon's voice on the back of his neck. "You remembered this time," he says, digging his fingers into the metal of the car, because he wants to fucking _touch_ , just relieve the pressure a little because he's so fucking hard right now, but somehow there are rules to this, and touching's not allowed. Not yet, anyway.

"Yeah, I remembered," Jon says, leaning back a little to reach into his pocket, slamming something down on to the hood of the car, as a memory flashes through Tommy's mind, of another bar; another car park, the hard bite of Jon's hands on his shoulders as he pushes Tommy down, and the sharp spike of gravel under his knees, because Jon forgot a couple of essential supplies and they had to improvise. Which meant Tommy blowing Jon, fast and sloppy and dirty, who's leaning against the door of the car tugging hard on Tommy's hair, and Jon veering off on to the side of the road a little bit later, because Tommy couldn't _stand_ it any more, and he can still see Jon's eyes widen when Tommy just has to - _just fucking had to_ \- get off right there, even though they're driving back to Tommy's place.

Jon had parked, though, double-quick, in the dark space between street lights and just watched as Tommy had finished the job with a few hard strokes, coming all over his hand and his t-shirt in hot, desperate spurts.

Tommy watches, now, as Jon pops the cap on the bottle with one hand, and Tommy has to push back just a little, saying, "Watch it. You're fucking cutting me in half here."

"Sorry," Jon whispers in Tommy's ear, although Tommy can tell he doesn't really mean it. There's a laugh or a growl, or something darker under Jon's words that they've never talked about. Of course, they've never talked about fucking in car parks, either.

"Help me out," Jon says, nudging Tommy's hip, and Tommy picks up the bottle, pouring lube on to Jon's hand, watching it pool slick-wet under the security light that's just flashed on. Jon tenses and turns his head, but – "Cat," he says, relieved, and then groans when Tommy starts sliding the lube over his hand; curling Jon's index and middle fingers in the hollow of his own hand, and jacking it slowly, like he's jacking his dick.

"Fuck, Tommy, _fuck_ ," Jon's babbling as he eases back long enough to unzip his jeans with his non-slicked hand, the sound of metal-on-metal sudden and loud in the silent car park, frantically pushing his jeans down and now Tommy can really feel Jon's dick, pressing hard, and shoving his t-shirt up, like it can't wait.

"Don't move. Don't. Fucking. Move," Jon says, scrambling at Tommy's jeans with his free hand, shoving at them until they're around Tommy's knees.

"Where the fuck am I going to go?" Tommy asks, his voice still rough, and now a little shaky.

Jon laughs at that, high and a little off-key, like he needs to be tuned. He pulls back a little and shoves at Tommy's hips until he's got him where he wants him, and slides a finger in, slow and easy. Tommy curls his fingers on the hood of the car and tries to push back, but Jon's too fucking close to him.

"Gonna – gonna open you up, Tommy boy, and fuck you right here. Right on the hood of the car," Jon's saying, too high, and too fast, and fuck, Tommy doesn't even care right now, because Jon's sliding another finger in, and curling it and – "Yeah, Fuck. Yeah, Jon – that's – yeah," Tommy babbles out, breathless and hard and fucking - " _Fuck_ " he half-shouts, too loud, as Jon's finger presses lightly into Tommy's prostate before pulling back. "Jon. Harder. C'mon. _Harder_ ," and that works because Jon curls his other hand tight on Tommy's shoulder, and he's going to have to be careful with what he wears for a few days because he's going to have bruises there, and then the world narrows to Jon's hand on his shoulder, and Jon's fingers, fucking him, and fucking him, and his dick pressing against the car, leaking already, smearing trails on his t-shirt.

"You ready, Tommy?" Jon asks, biting Tommy on the ear, flicking his tongue out for a second.

"Yeah. Just. Do it already, Jon. _Fuck!_ "

Jon bites his ear again, almost too hard, and pulls his fingers out slowly. Tommy hears a fumble, then a rustle as Jon opens a condom, and Tommy stares down at his own dick, pulsing now with the need for – "I gotcha, Tommy," Jon says, a hand on his hip again, pressing in to the bone as he guides his dick into Tommy's slick and open asshole, slowly at first, stroking at Tommy's hip; soothing almost, and Tommy braces his hands on the car, and pushes back as much as he can, trying not to scratch the car as he digs his fingers in, his hands starting to sweat and slip on the surface.

It's cold now, really fucking cold, but Tommy feels like he's got his back to a bonfire, because Jon's fucking burning up behind him, and inside him, and – "Harder, Jon. Fuck."

"Say please, Tommy boy, and I'll fuck you as hard as you like," Jon whispers into the back of his neck, before scraping his teeth along the sensitive nape, bending and adjusting Tommy as he moves inside him, like Tommy's his personal – Tommy snaps his thoughts off at that point, like he always does.

And please is easy to say; it's easy to give Jon what he wants, because it's what Tommy wants, too. "Please, Jon please. Fucking _harder_ ". Tommy's not thinking much at all after that, except to _hold on_ and _right there_ as Jon fucks into him hard and a little out of control, his still-slick hand on Tommy's dick now; the only thing stopping it from getting smashed into the side of the car, but Tommy's pretty sure even that would make him come, and then he is, rutting hard into Jon's hand, watching his orgasm spill over – on to Jon, on to his t-shirt; the car – it feels like it's going everywhere.

"Fuck, Tommy _fuck_ ," Jon's saying, his breath catching in his throat as he grabs Tommy's hips with both hands and thrusts into him harder and harder, until Tommy feels Jon start to lose his rhythm, as his hips stutter out of time for the first time, and Jon's teeth are sinking into his shoulder as he comes hard, on a long, low groan, that's nearly enough to set Tommy off again, except he's not 18 any more.

He feels the void when Jon pulls out and shivers a little, listening to the small sounds of Jon doing his pants up, before Tommy shakily pushes back from the car and carefully pulls his own jeans up, tucking himself in carefully, feeling his fingers slip in the come that's sticky on his flat stomach. He waits while Jon tosses the condom into a trash bin, and comes back, grinning as the security lights flare on again, and Tommy catches the dark and feral thing in Jon's eyes that lurk below the surface.

Tommy wipes his hands on his jeans, as Jon says, "Ready to go?" trailing his fingertips along Tommy's arm and Tommy can't help it – he pulls Jon in and says, "Not yet, okay?" before winding his hands in Jon's hair, and Jon's whispering "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," against his mouth, so quiet that Tommy can feel it rather than hear it, before Jon's mouth is on his, and his tongue is pushing in, hard and wet and demanding.

Jon pulls back first, biting at Tommy's bottom lip. "C'mon. Time to go, Tommy boy."

And Tommy makes a mental note – again – to tell Jon how much he fucking _hates_ being called Tommy boy. But all he says is, "Yeah, sure," draining the last of the glass of whiskey abandoned on the hood of the car that had somehow survived intact, setting the glass on the ground before getting into Jon's car, shifting a little bit until he remembers that he's not going to really get comfortable for a while, because his ass hurts, but it's a good kind of hurting; a deep ache that Tommy tries to memorise, because who the fuck knows when the next lonely car park on a dark, cold night is going to come along?

He shuts his eyes as Jon starts the car, letting the rumble of the engine and the roll of the wheels carry him away. Occasionally he feels the brush of Jon's fingers, like he's making sure that Tommy's still there, or still awake, and Tommy realises it's Jon's own way of memorising: of keeping contact for as long as possible.

It's comforting and scary at the same time; like being alone in the house during a thunderstorm or a blackout: you know nothing bad is really going to happen, but the _possibility_ is there.

Because there are no safe houses.


End file.
